Monkshood. Anne Mather
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time, and his eyes were too deeply set above high cheekbones, and yet she could not deny that some women might find the sensuality of his mouth and the pale intensity of his eyes below dark brows attractive. She already knew he was about five feet ten inches tall, only three inches taller than herself, and his frame was broad and muscular, but it was his undoubted masculinity that she found the most provoking. He was, she decided, a typical example of the kind of man who used to terrorize the Borders in the days when England and Scotland were ruled by different queens, and when that other Bothwell held sway over thousands of his countrymen.
So absorbed was she with her thoughts that when he spoke she started. ‘Exactly what is a girl like yourself doing out here in the depths of winter?’
Melanie bit her lip. The outspokenness of his question was in keeping with his manner, she thought, and she was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. Only the realization that he was the only person capable of returning her to civilization caused her to have second thoughts. To some extent he was an unknown quantity so far as she was concerned, and he was most definitely not the kind of man she was used to. She thought he was primitive and uncouth, and she resented his assumption that because he was helping her he should be privy to her private affairs almost as much as having to accept his assistance in the first place.
Now she said: ‘I’m going to the Black Bull at Cairnside.’
Bothwell raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Indeed? That’s a strange place to be going at this time of year. There are no skiing facilities near Loch Cairnross, and we don’t go in for entertaining much.’
Melanie ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr. Bothwell. I don’t expect to be entertained.’
His eyes narrowed and then with a shrug he turned and flicking off the interior light started the engine. He swung the vehicle round in a body-shaking curve and started back the way they had come. The Range-Rover covered the ground powerfully, and presently they turned again and Melanie guessed they were back on the road.
The snow was not falling so heavily now and the sky had lightened considerably, illuminating the road ahead more adequately than headlights. The wind still howled around them, but at least now Melanie could see where she was going. Bothwell was, if nothing else, an expert driver, and she felt secure in this knowledge, realizing she would have had immense difficulty on this glassy surface even had she made it this far. Bothwell did not speak to her again, and she could only assume that her final comment had made her feelings clear to him. Whatever his reasoning, she was glad. He was altogether too disturbing when he gave her all his attention, and she deliberately directed her thoughts to Michael. She tried to imagine what he would have made of her companion, and decided he would have found his overwhelming masculinity distasteful.
The road suddenly curved downwards and Melanie slid forward on her seat before she could grip its edge and propel herself back again. To either side of the road stretched forests of pines, their branches laden with snow, while above them now she could see the towering mountains that covered this area. She wanted to ask what mountains they were, but hesitated about breaking the silence between them, and presently the road flattened out again and she realized they were in a narrow valley.
Ahead of them lights were gleaming and she leant forward with undeniable excitement. As they drew nearer she saw her destination. The hotel nestled at the foot of a high mountain whose peak was shrouded in mists, and whose lower slopes were dark with pine trees that encroached to the hotel itself. The Black Bull was small and compact and welcoming, smoke curling from several of its many chimneys and dogs to announce their arrival. Melanie lay back in her seat with some relief. She had arrived, and for the moment that was all she could cope with.
Bothwell brought the Range-Rover to a halt in front of the hotel and switching off the ignition slid out without speaking to her. Melanie gathered her gloves and handbag and fumbled with the door catch. But before she could open the door, he swung it open for her and then turned away into the hotel.
By the time Melanie had climbed out and closed the door, he had disappeared and she was left to enter the hotel alone. Contrarily, she missed his escort, and she approached the entrance with some trepidation. What if they had no rooms? What if the hotel was closed to guests?
Inside the heavy oak door she was pleasantly surprised. Beyond a small enclosed lobby there was a small reception area, carpeted and furnished with old but highly-polished furniture. There was a reception desk with a register and a bell to be used for service, and if the lighting was shadowy, at least it was electric.
Encouraged by this evidence of comfort, Melanie approached the desk and rang the bell, wondering as she did so where Bothwell had gone. There was no sign of him here and she glanced surreptitiously up the wooden-balustraded staircase to the floor above.
A door opened behind the reception desk and a young woman emerged. She was unexpected, too. Small and very blonde, with a rounded figure that was clearly outlined beneath the close-fitting woollen dress she was wearing. She smiled politely at Melanie, and said: ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ in an unmistakably Scottish brogue.
Melanie smiled in return. ‘Er – I realize this is rather short notice, but could you possibly put me up for a couple of nights?’
The girl showed little surprise. ‘I think that could be arranged, Miss – er—?’
‘Oh, Stewart, Melanie Stewart,’ supplied Melanie at once. ‘Oh, thank goodness! I was afraid you might be full up or not taking residential guests at the moment!’
The girl consulted the register. ‘Och, at this time of the year we always have plenty of room,’ she said smoothly. ‘There are one or two regulars, of course, but they won’t trouble you.’ She looked up rather questioningly. ‘For a couple of nights, you said?’
Melanie bit her lip. ‘At least,’ she agreed awkwardly. ‘I – er – I have business in the neighbourhood, and I’m not sure how long it will take. Tell me, is the village far?’
The girl frowned. ‘It’s a very small village, Miss Stewart. But such as it is – it’s about half a mile down the valley.’ She hesitated, obviously curious to know why Melanie should be interested in the village, but Melanie chose not to enlighten her right now. That could come later.
‘My – er – car – is stranded some miles back, off the road,’ she said. ‘I wondered if there was a garage …’
‘I see.’ The girl shrugged. ‘The nearest garage is in Rossmore, about five miles away. You could possibly telephone them tomorrow if the weather improves.’
‘Oh, yes! Thank you.’ Melanie glanced round. ‘Er – a Mr. Bothwell – gave me a lift. He came into the hotel. Do you happen to know where he is? I’d like to thank him, Oh, and my cases are in the back of his car.’
The girl hesitated and then turning went to the door which led into the room behind the desk. Opening the door, she called: ‘Sean!’ rather sharply, and a few moments later Bothwell himself emerged.
He had shed the heavy fur-lined jacket he had been wearing, and looked darker and more muscular than ever in tight-fitting dark trousers and a polo-necked navy sweater. Melanie felt impatient with herself for asking his whereabouts now that he was here. She thought he would more than likely imagine she was deliberately drawing attention to herself again, and she tried not to speculate on what his relationship might be with the girl behind the desk.
In consequence, she was very brief in her expressions of gratitude, and he bowed his head politely at her words. She thought he was perfectly aware of her discomfort and his face took on an expression of sardonic amusement as he said: ‘It was nothing, believe me. I’m used to rescuing lambs in distress, and your predicament was not so different!’
Melanie managed a forced smile and then turned back to the girl. ‘I’ll just get my cases,’ she said.
Bothwell came round the desk. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said, his tone brooking no argument, and Melanie said: ‘Thanks!’ rather ungraciously.
The girl surveyed her curiously as Bothwell